


"Fancy Waiter Emil"

by gingerbraidgirl



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 14:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18639787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerbraidgirl/pseuds/gingerbraidgirl
Summary: "Author's Note: in this modern AU, Emil is waiting tables to pay for his own education after his family lost money? Aka I couldn't figure out a timeline and I don't know what I'm doing? And I wanted to write awkwardangst!Emil apparently??? Great, glad that's covered. enjoy"





	"Fancy Waiter Emil"

**Author's Note:**

> "Author's Note: in this modern AU, Emil is waiting tables to pay for his own education after his family lost money? Aka I couldn't figure out a timeline and I don't know what I'm doing? And I wanted to write awkwardangst!Emil apparently??? Great, glad that's covered. enjoy"

     Each elegant string of pearls, each artful movement of the string quartet, each clink of one champagne flute against another-each reminder of his past place amongst the rich and distinguished-filled Emil with shame. Everywhere he turned, there was another token of the life that he'd been forced to leave behind.  
     "Excuse me, Madame, might I interest you in some wine this evening?" Emil asked smoothly, his dulcet voice giving no indication of his true disgust. He recognized this woman: she'd been friends with his mother. She'd asked Emil what he was studying, and if he was doing alright in school, and did he know how tall he'd gotten? She'd been all laughs and charming smiles and oh-darling-it-is-simply-so-good-to-see-you's. He'd known this woman before-before they'd lost all their money.   
     "I'd quite like a Chardonnay, and I'd quite have liked it five minutes ago," she said, waving Emil away without even giving him a glance. It seemed that her companion wasn't eager to speak up about any other types of wine, so Emil just gave a slight nod. He bit the inside of his cheek, and turned away to the kitchen. Walking through those kitchen doors, it was like he'd transformed. The warm air ate away at him, and the cries from one chef to another over who'd used whose favorite boning knife only added to his tension.   
     His steps came faster and faster as he neared the wine cellar, and once he'd slipped inside and closed the doors, Emil heaved a huge sigh. Ever since he'd started running into money troubles at home, the stress of it all had been getting to him more and more. And that the only job that he could find fast enough to keep up his studies (and pay his tuition) was as a waiter-now _that_ was humiliating.   
     "Chin up, buttercup," he whispered to himself, smoothing his hair into place. He might be overwhelmed, and he might be exhausted, but he was going to be professional. Scanning the Chardonnays in the cellar, he quickly selected one with which he was quite familiar, because it had been his father's favorite. That was another reason Emil couldn't stand working as a waiter in this restaurant: his family used to eat there all the time.   
     Gently removing the bottle from where it had been nestled in the wall, he let himself out of the cellar and walked back through the kitchen. Grabbing a starched cloth from a nearby table outside the cellar, he cradled the bottle in the crook of his arm. The sounds of dicing, sautéing, and broiling ringing in his ears, Emil was plunged back into the stiff sophistication of the dining area as he returned to his customers. Heat and tension and the raw robustness of the kitchen gave way to the near deadness of the quiet dining room, broken only by strained conversation and the compositions of tuxedoed musicians.   
     "Here you are, Madame," he said, pulling a corkscrew from his pocket and attempting to open the wine. He fumbled with the corkscrew, but was eventually able to coax the cork from the mouth of the bottle. A little bit of wine drippled down the side when he did so, but he quickly tried to diffuse the situation by wiping it with the cloth in which he'd lain it. The woman rolled her eyes to her dining companion, and sighed at Emil. "You should have opened this ages ago," she hissed, tapping her long fingernails against her wine glass in anticipation.   
     His cheeks flushing, Emil poured wine for both of the women at the table. Trying not to make any eye contact, he asked softly, "And what will you ladies be starting with this evening?" His mind racing, Emil knew that he saw the women's lips moving, but wasn't quite sure that he heard what they were saying. He was starting to feel even more flustered-he'd ruined his first impression with this new customer. _How could you have opened the wine so terribly?_ he asked himself miserably. _They'll think that you're some bum off the street-that you've never stepped foot in a restaurant like this before! And who could blame them? Your behavior has been a disgrace of a mess!_   
     Suddenly, the women rushed into focus as one of them snapped in his face. "Excuse me! I was speaking to you, young man!" hissed the one wearing a garish red cocktail dress.   
     "I'm sorry, Madame af Wasaborg," Emil said, trying to keep his composure. The older women stared up at Emil, daring him to meet her gaze. He examined her hair in great detail, just above her eyes. Her roots needed touching up-she clearly wasn't a natural blond.   
     "Don't you ' _Madame af Wasaborg_ ' me," she grumbled, waving a ringed finger at him. "How do you even know my name? I didn't offer it to you, little waiter boy," she said, squinting at Emil as though he really were a misbehaving little child.  
     Suddenly, Madame af Wasaborg clapped her hands together. "Oh, isn't this such a treat, Margaretha?" the woman crooned, sizing up Emil once more. "I've just realized where I know him from. This little one is a _Vasterström_."   
     Emil looked up, his eyes finally meeting her own. She could see that she'd touched a nerve, and so Madame af Wasaborg carried on.   
     "Well, that explains it all, doesn't it…what was it, Emil?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine, leaving red smudges behind on the glass's rim. "Ah, yes, the little scholar. Tell me, how did they ever let _you_ step foot in _here_ again?" she sneered, taking another obnoxious sip from her wine.   
     "Madame, the sooner that you tell me what you'd like to eat, the sooner I can get it out here to you from our chef," Emil said calmly, though inside he was trembling. From anger or from embarrassment, he wasn't sure which, but Emil felt the need to get away from this woman as quickly as possible. Ruining first impressions were bad enough, but now he was trying to get a new start with this job, and he'd ruined this _second_ first impression.  
     "Well, dearest, I've already told you that I'll be having the spaghetti prosciutto with fresh basil, and Margaretha is having the risotto! And if you'd like to be paid for this meal, you'd better get it to us before I decide to call your uncle and tell him what a mess you're making of this." Margaretha's eyes widened, but she kept her lips tightly shut. It seemed she was used to her friend's outspoken routine.   
     Emil placed the wine on the table, folded the cloth over his left forearm, and walked as fast as he could away from the table and back to the kitchen. In his haste (and his too-big new work shoes), Emil tripped over the threshold, and before he knew it, had collided with someone else. Dishes clattered to the ground, and so did Emil and whoever he'd bumped into, landing with a crash on the tile floor.   
     "Watch where you're going!" another chef called from across the kitchen with a sigh, before quickly returning to her chopping. Rubbing his eyes, Emil looked up, only to see that he'd collided with a bear of a man who had more sideburns than face.  
     "Well, to be honest, this steak is probably better having been on the floor," the man sighed, getting to his feet and then offering Emil a hand. "I just couldn't get the dry rub down, and there's not much you can do for a piece of meat after you've overcooked it."   
     Emil, now on his feet, looked down at the steak on the floor, looked up at the man who'd just helped him to his feet, and burst into tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, friends. Though I'm less active in the SSSS fandom now (and am, indeed, several hundred pages behind), I cannot deny that it was an incredibly formative group of people for me my junior and senior years of high school. I am so blessed by the friends made in that group, and thought I'd post this so that I could share it with you all!
> 
> This little ficlet was likely written in 2016; I just rediscovered it on my laptop in the midst of studying for my uni finals. I'm sharing it here, in its unedited (and unfinished) form, because I think it makes for a nice time capsule. :)


End file.
